


Can't See Nothing 'Round Here

by agent_orange



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Break Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Drunk Sex, Hair Washing, M/M, Rough Sex, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The LT and I broke up," Brad says, and hangs up the phone. Ray doesn't call back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn't regret what happened with Nate.

Brad doesn't regret much. Despite the clusterfuck that was OIF, he doesn't regret the way it played out, though if he could've done it differently, he would've. Would've been more careful with Trombley and Walt; would've made an opportunity to do something about Encino Man and Captain America, even if got him NJP'd. He would've gotten that fucking turret before he shipped out, too.

He doesn't regret his time with the British Royal Marines, or the tours Nate suggested maybe he shouldn't have done. Nate wrote his book and went to class while Brad was humping ammo and doing PT, making sure officers didn't blow themselves up and occasionally getting to shoot something. Brad couldn't have just sat in Cambridge and done nothing, or OCS training the future fuckups of the United States Marine Corps.

What he does regret is not getting his head out of his ass sooner, that it took him so long to square things away with Nate. That it took him so long to square things away with himself, after Jen and Sam. When they met, Brad knew Nate ( _Fick_ , then; a baby-faced LT with, as Brad soon learned, high hopes) would be different than the other officers, not just smarter. He did what he had to do—buried those feelings until Nate became a civilian, reconned the shit out of him (not that he hadn't already), and waited. It took Ray telling him to stop being such a fucking pussy, a phone call from Mike Wynn to "ask if Brad was doing okay," and several emails from Nate. _Just checking in_ , one read. _Wanted to make sure you're still alive._

It was far from perfect when it finally happened. Nate's doorway, apartment, and bed are all too small, so Brad ended up with some impressive bruises before they even got started. Nate had just finished finals, so the place was a mess, as was he. In the hallway, Nate tripped over a stack of his own textbooks and went skidding across the hardwood floor, landing with an _oof!_ and taking Brad down with him.

They didn't fuck there, but Nate did get to learn what Brad's tongue feels like in his mouth while his foreign policy textbook is poking at his kidneys. By the time they do reach the bedroom, Nate's down to just boxers; Brad kept his pants on until they reached the AO, but stripped them off once they set up base. It wasn't some rushed, hurry-up-and come thing; Brad took his time with Nate—laid him down on the bed and teased up until Nate was flushed and panting, licked into him, and jerked him off with a too-slow hand until he came. He took his time fucking Nate, too, careful, measured thrusts that have Nate getting off a second time, at the same time Brad does.

He doesn't regret what happened with Nate. Yeah, Brad wishes it'd happened sooner, but what they had it was good. It was real, unlike, the last six months he had with Jen. There were long months when they didn't see each other, when all they had was a few minutes on the phone or Skype; dirty letters. The wrath of the UCMJ was a constant fear bearing down on them, and the reason why they had separate apartments.

Things didn't end well. Nate wanted more than sleeping in Brad's bed—where the majority of their talking was done—and eating Brad's food three times a week, wanted more than Brad could give him. But Nate's not the only one to blame, and Brad could never pretend he was. It's Brad's fault, too, for keeping himself from Nate, for not opening up like Nate wanted him to, asked him to so many times.

Now, he doesn't look at Nate when they fuck. He always drinks first, monitoring his alcohol intake so he doesn't get so drunk his dick doesn't work. He's rougher than he used to be, leaving bruises all over Nate's skin, making Nate clutch the headboard to keep from falling off the bed. When he comes into ( _onto, next to, because of_ ) Nate, it's a release that's not as satisfying as it used to be, more tinged with guilt.

Brad Colbert is a Marine, and Marines make do.


	2. Chapter 2

When Brad leaves, it's not loud or dramatic, not like in the movies. They don't live together, exactly; between the Corps and DADT and Nate's job, it makes more sense not to, but they keep stuff at each others' apartments. He'd gone for a run to burn off the excess energy from their...it wasn't a fight—more like a _discussion_ —but he's twitchy and hyped-up worse than Ray on Ripped Fuel and instant coffee, which is never a good sign.

Most of his stuff is packed, but he's sitting on their bed—Nate's bed, now, and wasn't it always?—unable to make himself get up. He's leaving the high-tech coffee pot for Nate; one of his old USMC t-shirts, and some porn mags, too, because of course Nate would never buy any himself. He washes his face, and barely recognizes the guy in the mirror staring back at him, empty-eyed and blank.

When he finally makes it to the kitchen, Nate's there. His glasses are on, and he's reading from a thick, yellow legal pad. There's a tumbler of something amber-colored beside him; it's almost empty. He doesn't look particularly sad, or broken, just deep in thought. He stops what he's doing when he hears Brad, tilting his head up to meet Brad's eyes.

"Are you sure you want to take your motorcycle tonight?" he asks. Fucking typical.

"Yes," Brad answers. "I'm fine. Thanks so much for your concern, though. I really appreciate it." The acidity in his voice surprises him a little, but he doesn't shy away from it.

Nate shakes his head, but doesn't push it. "When do you leave again?"

"What's it to you?" He wasn't planning on getting into it for real with Nate, but if it comes to that, Brad will.

"Come on, Brad," Nate says, and Brad can pick up a hint of desperation in his voice. "You know I still care about you. Don't get yourself killed over there just to get back at me."

"I would never throw the Corps away like that. Don't overestimate your importance, sir. You know officers can be easily replaced." With that, he takes his bag and leaves, kicking his motorcycle into high gear as soon as he merges onto the freeway.

*

Brad doesn't feel anything but the wind on his face and in his hair on the ride home. He doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad one.

*

Nate's stuff is scattered around the apartment, his life entwined with Brad's, and Brad can't have that as a constant reminder. He takes Nate's clothes from the dresser and Nate's food from the cabinets and Nate's books from the bookcase and all the rest of Nate's shit and packs it up, setting it by the door. He can figure out what to do with it later.

He has a beer, and a second, and then a third; his stomach growls, but Brad doesn't feel like eating. He could, but he's got plenty of time before his hunger becomes a problem. There's a game on, Lakers versus Celtics, but it doesn't hold his attention. Neither do _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ or _WWE Raw_. He jerks off in the shower, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. He resolutely doesn't think about Nate.

He doesn't think about anything.

*

Every few days, Ray calls, and if Brad doesn't pick up and allow his ears to be talked off, Ray calls over and over, emails, and texts. Once, he actually tried to file a missing persons report, so when, like clockwork, the phone rings late in the afternoon a couple days later, Brad picks up.

"Homes, didn't you get the message I left you?" Ray asks, sounding slightly pissed off.

"What message?"

"The _message_ ," he whines. "You know, on the LT's machine? I'm opening up my own bar, just like I said I would."

"Shut the fuck up, Ray," Brad says, half out of habit and half because he means it. Dealing with Ray is the last thing he's up for right now. "Nobody's going to go to your sad-ass, whiskey tango trailer park, country music playing, sister-fucking, dick-smoking excuse for a bar."

Ray lets out a whistle. "Damn, homes," he sighs. "That was harsh, even for you. What gives?"

"The LT and I broke up," Brad says, and hangs up. Ray doesn't call back, which is a small miracle, and Brad's thankful for that, at least.

*

Brad surfs early in the morning, and it's no different now (different beach, maybe, but the waves are better by his apartment, anyway). He takes his board out before the morning rush hits, when the sun's barely in the sky and the air is still chilly. It's a good day to surf. When Brad zones out for a minute and gets caught in the pull of a huge wave, he can really hear the sound that comes when it breaks.

It sounds like artillery fire, only this time, the LT's not on the comms, calm as ever, giving orders.

Brad doesn't let himself zone out again.

*

After, he throws a t-shirt on (USMC, of course, because karma's a goddamn PMS-ing bitch and that's the only one he had in his bag) and gets breakfast at a diner. He says 'fuck you' to Nate, the everlasting health nut, by getting bacon, sausage, hash browns, pancakes (which he drenches in butter and maple syrup), biscuits, a muffin, coffee, and more bacon. The food is greasy and fatty; Rudy would hate it. Brad loves it. The waitress is friendly and effervescent, smiling, stopping by to see how he's doing and how his food is and some other bullshit he tunes out. It turns his stomach; he leaves the muffin uneaten, pays, and leaves.

*

Thirty-seven new emails are waiting for Brad in his inbox when he gets home, not counting the three that got routed directly into his spam folder. One is from Poke, who insists that Brad come up for dinner _tonight_ , and if he doesn't, both of them will get lectures from Angela. Brad rolls his eyes and responds, asking what time he should be there. One is an extremely polite message from Walt, who now mistakenly thinks that Brad is some kind of pussy liberal who _talks_ about his feelings, makes himself "available if Brad ever 'needs anything'." Like to talk about his feelings. Fuck that.

Another email is from Reporter, who wants to get coffee when Brad has a chance. Brad deletes that one, only to find a note from fucking _Captain America_ saying that Brad's "secret" is safe. Jesus, what a clusterfuck. Brad's going to have to talk to Ray about how exceedingly stupid he is.

Rudy tells Brad yoga and meditation will make him feel better. Eric, who's recovering from tinnitus and a majorly fucked-up arm, asks if _Brad's_ okay. Stafford, Garza, and Lilley all send similar notes, saying that they "heard." Ray sent a bunch of emails, littered with curse words and dirty jokes and questions. Brad doesn't respond to anyone. He goes for a run instead—ten miles at least, but his body's on autopilot and doesn't keep track. He showers, makes a sandwich, calls his mom. She asks how Nate's doing, He doesn't tell her what happened. She'll only worry that this is a repeat of Julie all over again, and she might cry, and Brad can't deal when that happens. He says, "Fine. At a conference in San Francisco."

Brad's mother clucks her tongue. "That boy's working too hard," she says. "And when you're on leave, too. Can't he—"

"No, he can't," Brad says. It's true. Nate teaches at UCSD, which isn't what he wants to be doing, not really. He should be in Washington, using all that fucking idealism to change the country, but he took a teaching position to be near Brad. Political jobs aren't as easy to come by in San Diego. They all make sacrifices, but Nate makes more. Brad's not sure what Nate'll do now: part of him hopes he'll stay, and part of him hopes Nate will get the fuck out of California, and as far away as possible. "I have to go," he says, cutting off his mom's protests with the _click_ of the dial tone.

*

Dinner at Poke's is...interesting. Angela looks at Brad like he's broken (and he's not, he's _not_ ) and fusses over him. Maria and Isabelle are so adorable that Brad can't hold their loud, high-pitched squealing and predominately pink outfits against them. Poke asks about his next deployment and the guys from the platoon, and only rants about The Man a little, so Brad can't complain.

Angela's an excellent cook, and the girls made cookies for dessert (they're passable, but delicious compared to stale pound cake and crumbling brownies). Mostly, though, it's nice to see Poke as a civilian, happy and smiling instead of scowling over the butt of his M-4.

He gets sent home with hugs and leftovers and this odd lurking certainty that he'll never have what Poke does.

*

His days feel empty, so Brad ends up buying a ton of shit he doesn't need from QVC and other infomercials. Most of his purchases can't even be justified by insomnia. He sends Ray a popcorn maker with a note that says _Thanks for fucking outing me to the entire fucking platoon. Pull a stunt like that again and see what happens to your herpes-infested, goat-fucking dick._

Ray texts him in response. _Christ, Brad, you're such a dipshit. We all know you're the fucking Iceman and could kick all our asses, but you're not_ actually _invisible. Everybody knows. Everybody knew about you and the LT before I told them. Did your stupid Hebrew ass forget that they're in Recon too?_

*

He lets his hair grow out some—there's no need to cut it so often if Sixta's not on his ass about the goddamn grooming standard. He stops shaving, too.

When he looks in the mirror, he doesn't recognize himself.

*

Mike calls one night after Brad's just polished off a large cheese pizza, which isn't difficult, really, but it is a bit harder to do without Nate stealing slices from him. "The LT ain't doin' so good," he says instead of a greeting.

Out of everyone who's tried talking to Brad, this is the worst. Mike's the only one who's Brad's superior, the only one who's firmly on Nate's side. Brad knows it's not because of how things happened, but because in OIF, Wynn was basically Nate's right hand, and Nate his favorite LT. He sighs. "I know."

"No, you don't," Mike says. "You haven't talked to him since you left. I know your ex fucked you up an' all, and believe me, everyone in First Recon is sorry, 'cause they got stuck listenin' to your rants on marriage, but did you think that was gonna happen again and tried to beat Nate to the punch? Jesus, Brad. Sometimes you're really fuckin' stupid."

"You haven't even gotten my side of the story," Brad says. "Great Recon job, Gunny. Really." He wants to say more, but he doesn't.

"Anything you want me to tell him?" Mike prods.

"Tell him..." Brad pauses here, thinking. _Tell him I miss him. Tell him I can't stand his fucking guts. Tell him we were both idiots and we should just forget about what happened._ "Tell him something," Brad says. "I don't know. Just make something up."

Brad can hear the disappointment in Mike's voice when he says, "Will do."

*

Just like everyone else, Brad's got needs, and he goes back to his old ways to satisfy what he can't properly do himself. He's not a huge fan of bars, but it's the best place to find a one-night stand, and that doesn't take too long. Sandy has long, silky brown hair and great tits and a tight little body; Brad buys her a couple drinks and makes the requisite small talk before kissing her, which leads to an invitation back to her apartment. He accepts, of course, and tails her yellow VW bug back to her East Village apartment.

She doesn't talk, which Brad appreciates, and all the kissing she likes to do isn't bad, either. Sandy's at least a foot shorter than he is, so Brad lifts her up and presses her against the nearest wall. She goes with it, wrapping her legs around his waist and mouthing at his neck.

They don't fuck there; they could, but Brad gets the impression that Sandy would rather do it in a bed, and that's fine with him. Hers is plenty big enough, soft and plush, crisp white sheets highlighting Sandy's tan. She's loud when he thumbs her nipples, hot and tight when he fucks her.

It takes some effort, but he doesn't think about Nate. He gets what he needs and is perfectly fine lying in bed with her afterwards (luckily she hadn't insisted on that 'spooning' horseshit) until the door snicks open. If he has to deal with some jealous boyfriend, things could get messy, even though Brad could most likely take him out without a problem, but he prefers not to solve things like that.

Sandy doesn't have a jealous boyfriend, but Brad's not in the clear, since some hot redhead comes into the bedroom and finds them, face flushing with anger.

"What the fuck, Sandy?" she snaps, and Brad figures it's as good a time as any to hightail it out.

It's too bad, really. He could've gone for a threesome, but unlike Ray, he's smart enough not to bring something like that up after he caused a fight by sleeping with someone else's girlfriend.

*

He's got a few more days of leave before he has to go back to Pendleton and do his fucking Basic Fitness Test again, but he's bored by everything. He halfheartedly works on a couple of his old computers, replacing the fans and doing basic upgrades. It's not enough of a challenge, so he does laundry and goes out surfing again.

*

Brad redeploys to Iraq. It's nothing like the first time. Ray's Ripped-Fueled chatty ass isn't next to him, steering the Humvee into undiscovered land. There's no liberal, pansy-ass reporter in a seat that belongs to a real Recon Marine, and Brad doesn't have a baby-faced LT with a shitload of idealism and sinful cocksucking lips.

The Iraqis are different. Less trusting, though the children still clamor for humrats and mothers still hand their babies over to Brad and his Marines, like all that ails them will disappear with just a touch. Cities are in ruins, and the hamlets aren't faring much better. They've been bombed and shot at, looted by bandits, and the US still hasn't built them back up.

They're not all that fucking grateful to be liberated anymore, and Brad doesn't blame them.

*

He doesn't think about Nate. He can't, not if he wants to get home uninjured and about as sane as he was before.

Instead, he imagines what riding his bike again will be like, what real food will taste like after so long of only eating MREs. It gets him through, but just barely. Well, that and Hasser, who's a TL now, with fledgling fuckups all his own. He's not as good as Poke or Kocher yet, but he will be. Hasser tries his best, cares about his guys, and is smart enough to do a good job. Brad can tell Walt's a little lost without Ray as his loudmouth, morally bankrupt, livestock-fucking compass, but he manages.

Brad doesn't say anything, and that doesn't change when he sees a Polaroid slip out of Walt's well-worn copy of _Juggs_. He doesn't ask, Walt doesn't tell, and nobody gets fucking court-martialed.

Nobody dies, either, and that's something. (That's a lie, actually; Iraqis die, hostile and harmless alike, but such is the cost of war.) There are injuries: some cherry Pfc. loses a couple fingers, Corporal Reid gets shot in the thigh, and a few guys get injured by shrapnel, but tourniquet themselves and keep fighting, but Brad doesn't have to tell any crying mothers that their sons died on his watch.

Nate could've died, and Brad's so conscious of the little variables that can change everything, like Rudy leaning down to check Pappy's foot.

Then there are the not so little variables.

Nate left the Corps, and his replacement died pulling some heroic move that Nate probably would've done. Shit happens, and it's not always someone's fault, but...it could've been Nate coming back home in a flag-draped coffin.

*

When they leave, this one little Iraqi girl who Brad had sometimes given humrats and water to cries. He turns his head away, staring blankly out of the driver side window instead. Corporal Yorke makes a joke about Brad's Hajji girlfriend cheating on him while he's gone.

Brad doesn't laugh, and there's an awkward silence in the victor. From the turret, Malone starts humming some shitty John Denver song, while Brad just grits his teeth and waits it out.

*

His flight gets delayed. Of course it does, Brad thinks bitterly. He's been in the desert for months, shooting and getting shot at, patrolling neighborhoods, and doing real recon missions every now and then, if he's lucky. He smells and has got sand in places it shouldn't be, and that wasn't as bad when he was surrounded by guys who stank just as badly as Brad did, but now he's back in the civilian world, feeling alien in the bright, clean airport.

Some people hug Brad, shake his hand, or thank him, which always makes him feel uncomfortable, but he doesn't shy away from it; if they see him as some kind of hero or something, he's not going to be a jackass in return. He tries to buy a coffee and a newspaper, and something to eat, but the cashier won't take his money. It feels fucked-up, not right. Civilians have died because of what he did and people here are treating him like he's a great warrior. He's not. He's just trying to live his life.

Brad drops the cash on the counter, takes his sandwich, and hurries to his gate.

When he finally boards, the flight is uneventful. There are no crying babies, thank fuck, and it's a clear, sunny day, so there's no turbulence.

*

All Brad wants is to shower and get some real food and pass out before sleeping for at least thirty hours. When he opens the door to his apartment, though, he can tell almost immediately that there's someone else there. His heart's pounding, and then he sees Nate on the couch, lips wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle.

Brad glances over him, noticing little things: Nate hasn't let himself get civilian soft, but he has let his hair grow out some, and on anyone else it'd look like a fucking gay pretentious haircut for liberal Ivy League dicksucks, but on him, it looks good. _He_ looks good.

"Hi," Nate says. "Want a beer?"

"What I want is some real food and sleep the reason why you're in my apartment."

"I wanted to make sure you're okay," he says. "I...missed having you around."

"We broke up, Nate," Brad says flatly. "Your timing is fucking awful, you know that? No matter how pretty your face is, all I want to see right now is my pillow."

The smile drops off of Nate's face, and his eyes look a little brighter than usual.

"We never got a chance to talk about what happened," he says. "I'll go to the grocery and get some food, and you can take that shower you want so badly."

Brad strips off his cammies once Nate leaves, leaving them puddled on the kitchen floor. He can pick them up later; right now, he wants to wash all the dirt and grime and dust off his skin. He turns the water on as hot as it can, and just stands there, letting the water beat down on his back. Time slips away from him, and he's half-asleep on his feet with the soap still untouched in the dish.

When Nate slips into the shower, bare-ass naked and still fucking hot, Brad startles—he doesn't know how long Nate was gone, but the water hasn't started to run cold yet, so it can't have been that long.

"Let me," he says, and Brad's head drops back onto Nate's shoulder. He's so tired, and Nate's warm and soft, familiar.

Nate actually fucking washes him, never letting his hands linger for too long on Brad's body. Brad can't believe he's actually allowing it to happen without a fight, but it feels good. It feels like they're still together.

"Close," Nate says, and Brad, brain overworked, automatically asks _what?_ "Close your eyes," Nate clarifies, shampoo-y fingers working through what little hair Brad has.

"Going to use conditioner, too?" Brad mumbles, eliciting a laugh from Nate that Brad feels vibrating through his body. When the last of the shampoo slides down Brad's back, he gets out, gets dressed, and picks his uniform up before unpacking the groceries Nate brought back. Of course the fucker went to Whole Foods, which means the produce is all organically grown, the meat is free-range and much too lean, and everything's overpriced. He cuts the loaf of French bread in half and piles on some turkey and cheese, washes it down with this stupid fucking three-juice blend.

It's surprisingly good, and Nate looks happy when he sees Brad eating. "Knew you'd come around to eating from stores besides Safeway."

"Safeway isn't full of pot-smoking, bleeding-heart, poetry-loving hippies," Brad retorts.

"Fair enough," Nate concedes. "So I think we should talk."

"Talk about what, Nate? About how you sacrificed so much for me? About how, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't do anything right? About—"

Nate kisses him, and Brad sucks in a sharp breath, surprised. It's rough and bruising, and Nate takes advantage of Brad's open mouth by slipping his tongue right in. When Brad pulls back, Nate steps forward, closing the distance between them to press his lips against Brad's again.

"Fucking _stop_ it," Brad says, pushing Nate away; Nate stumbles back, but catches himself before he falls. "I'm too tired for this shit right now. I need to sleep."

*

Brad wakes up with his dick pressed to Nate's ass. He's half-hard, and Nate's hair is tickling his mouth.

"Did you seriously climb into my bed when I was fucking _sleeping_?" he asks, and Nate _mms_ an affirmative. "You must've really missed me."

"I did," Nate admits. "Can we fuck now?"

It's slow and deliberate, not at all like their last month of fucking. Brad rubs himself against Nate's ass, dick sliding in between his ass cheeks; he jerks Nate off, Nate's hand moving with Brad's as he gets close.

"Fuck," Brad says. " _Fuck_." He bites Nate's neck, hard, and comes.

*

For breakfast, Nate makes chocolate chip pancakes and the best coffee Brad's had in months. Brad waits until he's almost finished to say, "I can't."

"You can't what?"

"We can fuck, but I can't...it can't be more than that."

Oddly, Nate's expression is resigned instead of surprised. He purses his lips, says, "It's better than nothing." For a minute, he looks like he's going to cry, but he blinks a few times and it dissipates. Then he just looks young and broken. "I don't know if that'll work," Nate admits. "I don't know if I can be with you without really _being_ with you."

If Nate didn't look so sad, Brad would probably call him a pussy and make a joke about how when you leave the Marines, you get back your brains but lose your balls. He can't bring himself to, though, so instead he says, "We can always stop." He doesn't say _we can always get back together again_ , because they've tried and tried and failed every time.

"We can always stop," Nate repeats. "Yeah."

Honestly, Brad's not sure if that's really an option; every split they had was tough. They've both survived worse, though, and there's a lot to be said about the comforts of a relationship over simply paying for sex. It's not that Brad couldn't find someone else, but he might be too tired to. All his energy's focused on the Corps, and Nate knows that, even if he doesn't like it. It won't be perfect, but it'll be real, so he lets Nate kiss him, lets Nate lead him back to bed.


	3. the second draft of my life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Brad wants to keep fucking, Nate will give him that, even if he wants more.

It always starts with alcohol.

Nate knows Brad's a glutton for punishment—the Corps would've beaten him down otherwise, like it did Nate—but he's still shocked when Brad calls him a month after he moves out. The whole thing with Jen made it seem like it'd be impossible for Brad to ever get close to someone again. But Brad doesn't yell or call Nate a pussy liberal dick-suck pot-smoking commie, just announces that he'll be there in an hour and shows up forty-five minutes later with two six-packs in hand, his motorcycle helmet tucked in the crook of his arm.

They get drunk—not wasted, but Brad gets enough beer in him that Nate's not exactly protesting when Brad mutes the TV and pushes him back against the couch cushions, kisses him warm and wet, tugs roughly at Nate's dress shirt until it's on the floor, more than a few buttons missing. He doesn't stop to question if this is a good idea or ask Brad if he's sure, just lets himself be manhandled until Brad's finally satisfied with who's where on the couch that's too small for both of them.

In the morning, it comes back to Nate in little flashes: Brad's hand curled tightly around Nate's hip, his fingers digging into Nate's flesh; Brad's slicked-up fingers sliding into Nate and stretching him; Brad fucking him, hard and relentless. Nate's sorer than he's been in months, but it's the first thing he really felt since he and Brad broke up.

There's the _click_ of a key being turned in the lock, but Brad's silent as he enters. Sparky's panting, though, so Nate fills his water dish and scratches his head.

"Are you staying?" Brad asks quietly, and it takes Nate a minute to figure out that he means _here_ , in San Diego. He guesses he is; he hasn't really thought about it. His job's here, though he flies out to D.C. once a month. His life is here. _Brad_ is here.

"Yeah," Nate answers. "If it's okay—"

"It's fine," Brad interrupts. "I have to go."

*

The variables change. Different drinks (beer, vodka, Jack, amaretto sours). Different locations (Brad's place, Nate's place, his office, bar bathrooms). The next time it happens, they're out with a bunch of the guys from Bravo. Ray tries to diffuse the tension between them with shots and dumb jokes and insults, and Poke's going on about racial profiling.

They stumble out after last call, everyone else having gone home to wives and kids or girlfriends earlier. Brad tugs Nate into an alley and shoves his hand down Nate's pants, jacking him a little too fast, a little too rough. He ends up with raw thighs (from the denim), a scraped-up back (from the brick), and a bloody lip, but it's worth it. Brad gets come all over his jeans, but it's not like Nate was a huge fan of the pair.

After that, Brad makes a habit of showing up unannounced, or telling Nate he should be at Brad's apartment by the time Brad gets home. They don't have a joint bank account anymore, and Brad only keeps one change of clothes and a toothbrush at Nate's place, but they still have this, and if Brad wants to keep fucking, Nate will give him that, even if he wants more.

Sometimes it's over almost before Nate has a chance to register what's happening, and he ends up with Brad's mouth covering his own, hot and hard; Brad's hands all over him, leaving bruises; Brad's cock sliding wetly against Nate's thigh. Other times he spreads Nate out on his bed, licks him open, and fucks him so slowly Nate thinks he's going to die of frustration. He'll hold Nate down and rut against him, or make Nate swallow him all the way down, fingers wrapped tight around Nate's hair.

Every so often, Brad will come to him with a mark Nate knows he didn't leave, angry gouges down his back. He's gone back to whores and casual sex—no guilt and no attachment. Nate leaves his own marks over them, trying to ignore the fact that Brad's not his anymore. It's better than nothing, but it hurts.

In the morning, Brad runs, showers, and wakes Nate up before he goes. He jostles Nate awake, no longer gentle, and gives him a goodbye kiss that always leaves Nate wanting more. Nate's not exactly sure why Brad keeps coming back, though he has his theories: Brad doesn't want to start from scratch or have to explain himself to anyone else, or maybe he just can't let go. Knowing there will never be anything more than sex between him and Brad kills Nate, but not as much as it would to imagine his life without Brad.


End file.
